I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,- When he beats his bars and would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings- I know why the caged bird sings!

Taking it all in all and after all, negro life in Washington is a promise rather than a fulfillment. But it is worthy of note for the really excellent things which are promised

Washington is the city where the big men of little towns come to be disillusioned

We wear the mask that grins and lies.

All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.

Poor conceited humanity! Interpreters of God indeed.

The age is materialistic. Verse isn't. I must be with the age, so I am writing prose.